Clutching V’s case in one hand and my backpack strap in the other, I duck my head so my thick black hair hides my face from the gawking, curious looks tossed my way.
Yes, let’s all examine the skinny emo kid with a violin, black-painted nails and eyeliner.
In this town known for luxury resorts and picturesque beaches, I might as well be the poster child of, “Doesn’t belong here,” with a side of, “I’m not like the rest of you.”
Except Iamlike the rest of these insecure, hormonally charged cretins trapped in bodies changing too quickly to keep up with. I’m just stupid enough to wear it boldly on the outside rather than tucked into a pair of khaki shorts and boat shoes.
Seriously, I’ve never seen so many pastelpolos in my life.
Flipping the hair out of my eyes to double-check the number on the classroom door, I catch a muttered, “fag,” as an asswipe in a football jersey shoulder checks me.
And so it begins.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of responding. I’m not a fighter but I wouldn't say I'm a pushover either.
I’m apathetic.
None of it matters.
Dad thinks I’m depressed. Well, he’s going with that excuse to justify why he shipped me off to live with Mom and Richard in America’s Australia. He claims to have read an article about sunshine curing sadness. Pretty sure it was from a Hallmark card, but I didn’t have the energy to correct him.
I hate the sun.
I hate the heat.
I hate the sand.
A vampire doesn’t thrive in these conditions.
My beat-up sneakers squeak on the polished concrete as I enter the lab. The sciences mildly interest me; I like puzzles and organic chem is packed full of them. I probably should’ve told the school counselor I’ve already taken this class, but I’d rather have the easy A.
V’s case smacks off graffitied wooden table legs as I wander down the aisle, gathering a good amount of glares and scoffs before I reach an empty stool. I plop V down and sling my backpack on the table with a thunk, glancing at the unfortunate soul stuck with my dismal presence—
Holy.
Shit.
Is it possible for someone to glow like they’re hoarding a mini sun beneath their skin? Because this guy isbeaming.
I can’t get my mouth to work. His stunning eyes are locked on me and they’re unbelievably absent of judgment. It’s a miraculous feat that I can mumble, “Sup,” while under the curious scrutiny of olive green ringed in gold— the most vibrant contrast of hazel I’ve ever seen.
The stool wobbles as my ass hits the cool metal.
I sneak another look.
He flashes me a bright smile.
Fuck. Me.
Fuckmefuckmefuckme.
Closely shaved brown hair, a strong jaw, a few freckles.
He gives me one of those up-nods all guys do.
My lips twitch. I shift on my seat, my elbow bumping his lean forearm. His skin is warm. Of course, it is. The dude is sunshine incarnate.
Get it together, Win.
